


Beacon Hills Ghosts

by joannereads



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: And a kind of happy ending, Bit depressing really, M/M, Not really sure, Sadness, Then there's porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 02:53:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6593815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joannereads/pseuds/joannereads
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So there are no actual ghosts, a mention of a nymph, and Stiles' dad is only there in passing. Totally not beta'd or anything. just an outpouring of words - my first in this fandom - but I hadn't written anything in ages and I really wanted to write something. Rated M as there is a little porny goodness but no where near as much as in the past - but if you think it just be Explicit then let me know! Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beacon Hills Ghosts

“It’s crazy, that’s why!” Derek slams his hand against the table as if to make his point clearer. Stiles doesn’t even flinch, just glares back and waits for Derek to stop seething.  
“It’s not crazy,” he sighs. “Look, Derek, you’ve been gone a while and things around here are pretty different. I can handle this and so can Scott.”  
“I’ve not been gone that long,” Derek mutters as his eyes sweep over their hastily drawn plans again, looking for a better option than the one they have.  
“Dude, it’s been nearly four years!”  
“Clearly not long enough for you to grow up. My name is Derek, not dude. Or did you forget?”

Stiles shudders. Hot rage fills him and he bites it back. When Derek road into town on the coat tails of the latest big-bad, he knew he was going to find it hard to accept him back. Stiles is different now; they all are, but Stiles especially. He’s killed someone. The sudden rage is filled with equally sudden horror as the face flashes though his mind and he grinds the heels of his hands into his eye sockets in the hope that he’ll finally, finally, get rid of it.  
“Stiles?” Derek asks, a whisper of concern in the notes of his name. Stiles looks up and it’s clear he’s zoned out.  
“Seriously, Derek. The plan will work.”  
With that, he spins on his heel and storms out of the station. Let his Dad deal with the know-it-all werewolf—he needs fries.

~*~

“Stiles is different,” Derek says quietly to the sheriff as he helps him clear up the maps and pencils and string that Stiles has left strewn about the office.   
“Yes. Time will do that,” the sheriff says non-committedly. He is still a little unclear about Derek’s reason for returning or why he seems to need Stiles’ help, but he’s watching closely.  
“You’re different, too,” he adds as he takes the roll of paper Derek passes him. “What happened, while you were gone?”  
“What happened here?” Derek counters and the sheriff smiles shrewdly.  
“Listen, you’ll need to talk to Stiles about that. I wouldn’t want to say anything out of place.”  
Derek nods and stuffs his hands in his pockets. He’s bone weary, exhausted by the strains on his life. He’s not even thirty yet, but he feels as though he’s lived two life-times, maybe more.  
“You should head out. Go get some rest. In my experience, telling Stiles no never works. If they want your help, they’ll ask.”  
“No,” Derek shrugs sadly, “they won’t.” With that, he turns away.  
“Hey!” John calls after him, “where are you staying? Just, you know. in case I need to reach you.”  
“Nowhere, yet.”  
Then Derek is gone, disappearing out the front door and into the night.

~*~

Stiles is raging. Derek had no right to return and just demand to have things done his way! And it’s the wrong way, no less! Him and Scott, they’ve faced a couple of nymphs now, and this one will be no different. How dare he demand to be in on the plan? Scott and Stiles, they don’t need Derek to help them save Beacon Hills—again.

Stiles sighs audibly and stuffs another fry in his mouth. They aren’t as good as usual, lacking the crispiness they usually have. It’s probably because they’re reheated—after all, dinner was hours ago. Despite over an hour of eating and staring into space, Stiles is still frustrated. Which makes no sense to him. Nothing usually irritates him this much. Why is it that Derek’s return has him so riled up?

His pocket buzzes and he lifts his phone out and glances at the screen. Lydia.  
-What’s going on? Did you do it yet?

Stiles rolls his eyes and taps back a brief outline of the plan and when it’s going down. Then he waits, because Lydia always responds to tell him how it’s not going to work.

-I wasn’t talking about the nymph, I meant Derek.

Now he’s confused. Was there something he was meant to do? Something he’d said he’d tell him. He stares at the screen longer than necessary to realise he has no idea what she is talking about.

-???

Okay, so she’s getting impatient. With a sigh, he hits the phone symbol and the call starts to connect.  
“What? You aren’t making any sense!” he greets her.  
“Stiles, for someone with intense observational skills and great intelligence, you sometimes have your head so far up your own ass you have no idea what you’re missing.”  
Stiles sits and listens to her rage at him. He is still confused.  
“Lydia—” he interrupts, “What are you talking about?”  
“Derek.”  
“I got that,” he sighs, “what about him?”  
“Have you talked to him? About why he’s back?”  
“No.”  
“Then do it.”  
“Why? I don’t care why he’s back.”  
Lydia’s laughing is insulting—and endless. She laughs at him long enough for him to finish his fries, drop payment on the counter, and slip out into the night. He is starting the jeep before she stops.  
“Of course you care. Go talk to him.”  
“I don’t even know where he is!” Stiles exclaims, frustrated with her double talk and attitude.  
“Yes, you do,” she says sadly and promptly hangs up on him.

~*~

She’s right, of course. As Stiles pulls up to the broken shell of the Hale house, he can see Derek’s silhouette against the moon. Honestly, he doesn’t know why he’s here, except that if he wasn’t Lydia would make his life miserable. Derek doesn’t look up as he approaches, and Stiles suddenly feels as though he’s encroaching on Derek’s private time. Before he can turn to leave, he sees Derek’s shoulders heave as though stifling a sob, and a part of Stiles breaks inside. Gently, he perches on the collapsed wall next to Derek and rests his forehead against Derek’s shoulder.  
“Tell me,” he says, his words barely a whisper in the darkness which hangs about them like a shroud.

Derek hauls in a great sigh, but it’s clear he can’t form words yet. Instead, he clenches his hands into fists and Stiles can just make out the rivulets of blood that drip down the puncture wounds his claws make. Yet, he is frightened. Not for himself, anyway, though he is worried about Derek. Tentatively, he wraps an arm around the wolf’s broad shoulders and draws him closer. They sit for hours, Derek sobbing silently into Stiles’ shoulder in the burnt out wreck of Derek’s past.

The sunrise is spectacular. Brilliant reds and orange stretch across the sky and colour the clouds crimson and umber. The air is cold and still but Stiles, as wrapped up with Derek as he is, doesn’t feel the cold or the damp. Derek’s tears dried some time ago, but he has yet to move from the safety of Stiles’ embrace. And Stiles doesn’t want to let go yet. His heart beat, steady and constant, seems to reassure them both. Stiles closes his eyes and rests his head atop Derek’s, and waits.

“I knew it would be hard,” Derek says finally, his voice all broken glass and shadows and agony. “Coming home.” His breath seems to vanish all at once and he draws in a shuddering gasp before he can continue. “This town is full of ghosts, and they all seem to be mine. My parent, Laura, me.”  
“You’re still alive,” Stiles says into Derek’s hair.  
“No.” Derek’s words have a finality in them that scares Stiles. He draws back and lifts Derek’s face, staring into his eyes. They aren’t empty or cold, as Stiles had feared. Instead, anguish and desolation rage to dominate. Stiles feels his heart break—it shatters into a million pieces and sends shards of ice through his veins. Derek is broken.

“You are alive, Derek, here with me now.”  
“Look around you,” Derek says sadly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I was made to bleed. Made to hurt. Made to suffer. Coming here, coming home, I had to. I wanted to keep running, to keep hiding, but Beacon Hills follows me. It’s in here,” he says, pressing an open palm to his chest above his heart. “It’s smothering me.”

Stiles has never known Derek to be so open, or so broken. Sure, he knows he’s suffered. His family, Kate, his uncle, Kate again, every girlfriend he ever had. And Boyd, his pack.   
“I’m still here,” Stiles says suddenly. “I know you couldn’t save them, but you saved me more times than I can count. I’m still here because of you.” Stiles stares into Derek’s eyes, trying desperately to express how much he truly means what he says.

“I’ve been away four years. Pretty sure the only person that saved you in that time was you.”  
“Nope. I hear you in my head.”  
Derek raises an eyebrow and looks at Stiles.  
“Every time I’m about to do something dangerous or stupid or I hear you in my head, I see you, and you’re all frowny-faced sourwolf and telling me I’m about to die. I stop and think and make sure I don’t.”  
Derek sniffs back a smirk at Stiles’ names for him and sighs again, turning away.  
“I don’t belong here,” he says and Stiles nods.  
“I’m not sure any of us are,” he replies. “This place is literally a beacon for evil, and we’re drawn here. Not sure what that says about us,” he laughs, though it’s a bitter shadow or real hilarity. “I wish I could leave.”  
“So why do you stay?” Derek asks, though he’s fairly sure he knows the answer.  
“My dad. And Scott and his Mom. They won’t leave and I couldn’t stand it if something happened and I wasn’t here. I would always question if I could have stopped it, or prevented it, you know?” Stiles glances at Derek and sees the flames of his past flickering in his eyes. “Who am I kidding, of course you know! I’m sorry.” The last is barely a whisper.

Then Derek does the last thing Stiles expects, the last thing he knew he wanted. Derek kisses him. It’s soft, simple, gratitude rather than passion. But his lips are warm on Stiles’ and it gives them both a moment of comfort.  
“What was that for?” Stiles asks as Derek draws away, back into himself.  
“Thank you for coming here. Yesterday, it seemed like you wanted me gone, like I was in the way. I appreciate that you came out here for me.”  
“I didn’t want you gone. I didn’t want you back at all. I know what this place is for you, what it does to you. I was angry you would put yourself through that.”  
“I did it for you.”  
Stiles’ gaze snaps up to Derek’s face, and that’s when Stiles truly sees. Derek’s face is shadowed with pain, desperation not to lose anyone else, but there’s something else there. Affection. For him? “For me?”  
“Just like you and your dad, and Scott and Melissa, if something happened to you and I could have stopped it then I would have died. I can’t lose you as well.”

When Derek and Stiles first spent time together—unwillingly for both of them—and Derek used to slam Stiles into walls and into steering wheels and into his fist, Stiles would dream that it was just some crazy, infantile flirting. That it was just Derek’s way of saying he like liked him. He would beat off in the shower to fantasies of Derek pressing him into a wall, his hot fingers wrapped tightly around Stiles’ pale neck. Sometimes, when he was truly terrified and certain he was going to die—when he was in Eichen, or chasing down a Dread doctor, or any of the other hundred or more ways he could have died in the last six years—he would imagine Derek laughing at him, telling him ‘I told you so’.

But that wasn’t true, was it? Stiles could see now.   
“Pack forever, right?” he asked, at hint of humour to belie his realisation that he meant something to the broken man in front of him.  
“You’re more than pack, Stiles,” Derek says breathlessly, as though the realisation is new to him too.  
“Show me.” The words escape Stiles’ lips before he even thinks them, but he is relieved when Derek draws him closer anyway.

Derek presses gentle kisses to each of Stiles’ eyelids, to his cheekbones, to the pulse point on his throat. Finally, as though suddenly starving, Derek seizes onto Stiles’ mouth and demands entry with his tongue. As he sweeps into Stiles’ mouth, he rumbles a half-groan half-howl as he finally gets to taste. They kiss, tongue shifting against each other, hands pressed to necks and fingers tugging in hair, until Derek pulls back breathlessly.  
“Stop me now, Stiles, or I won’t be able to. I can’t . . . please, stop me?”  
Stiles, whose own breath comes in short, hot gasps, shakes his head gently and pulls Derek back in.

This time his hands are less PG-rated, and they sweep up under Derek’s shirt to slide across his chest. His delicate, pale fingers caress skin, pectorals, ribs, until they finally graze across pebbled nipples. Derek’s moan is lascivious and Stiles shivers with the knowledge that he did that.  
“Fuck, Stiles,” Derek says, pulling back again. This time he presses his forehead to Stiles’ and fights to get his breath back. Stiles takes the opportunity to lick and bite at Derek’s throat, shifting to his knees and tangling his fingers in Derek’s shirt as he nibbles at the tendon in Derek’s neck. This time, the growl of the wolf is unmistakable and Stiles sits back a little to watch as Derek’s eyes—his haunted, agony laced eyes—shift into beautiful blue.  
“What do you see?” he whispers, “when your wolf looks at me?”  
“Everything,” Derek replies, his words stifled a little by the fangs which have dropped. “I see everything.”

Lips press back to lips, more careful now that Derek’s wolf has made its presence known. This time, it is Derek’s hands that roam, and it burns deliciously where he presses them to Stiles’ skin. Stiles has been reduced to a shivering, panting mess, and his dick is rock hard. Derek hauls him up, tugs him closer until Stiles is straddling his lap. When Stiles rolls his hips he realises he is not the only one who is losing control. Derek’s dick is hard too, pressed tight to the denim but straining. Stiles rolls his hips again and Derek moans this time, much more human than before.

“I want you,” Stiles whispers softly into the shell of Derek’s ear.  
“Here?” Derek asks.   
Stiles nods. “Let’s scare away a few ghosts,” he smiles softly, and then kisses away the tears which threaten to leak from Derek’s eyes. Stiles climbs back slowly from Derek and shucks off his jacket, laying it on the ground. Derek does the same with his shirt, before Stiles pushes him down. Slowly Derek sinks to his knees and unzips Stiles’ jeans, tugging them off and quickly adding his boxers to the pile. He doesn’t think before taking Stiles in his mouth. Opening to take his full length, he slides his tongue over the head and then down lower, enjoying the sensation of soft and hard, wet and dry, and the taste that is all Stiles.

Stiles watches in awe as Derek, no longer wolfed out, takes his dick deep into his mouth. The sensations of wet and heat and suck and . . . his brain whites out for a moment as he succumbs to the feeling of being enveloped by Derek. He is not lost to the fact that less than twelve hours ago, he fully believed he never wanted to see him again.

Reality hits Stiles then. Derek will leave. He can’t stay here, can’t live in this place of ghosts and daemons and evil. He will lose himself. So Stiles must lose him instead.  
“Lie down,” he says, pulling Derek’s hair gently. Derek complies, lying back and resting his hands behind his head. Stiles sinks to his own knees and unbuckles Derek’s belt, slides his clothes off until Derek is completely naked below him.   
“You are gorgeous,” Stiles smiles. Derek doesn’t say anything, just watches the man in front of him. Stiles nods and Derek slides his knees up, planting his feet on the ground. Stiles draws in a shaky breath and leans down himself. Spit makes shitty lube, but it’s all they have. He slides one hand down the inside of Derek’s thigh, watching as gooseflesh ripples across it from Stiles’ touch. He slowly slides one spit-slick finger past the ring of muscle and into Derek’s ass. It’s tight and warm, and both men groan at the sensation. Stiles leans over Derek, kissing him senseless as he continues to work him open.

“Now,” Derek groans after Stiles has managed to slide in a second finger.  
“No, not yet.”  
“I’m ready, Stiles. Please. I need you now.”  
“I’ll hurt you.”  
“I’ll heal.”   
Stiles nods, hears the desperation in Derek’s voice, and gives in. He spits into his palm, tries to lube himself up a little, before he presses the head of his cock to Derek’s entrance. The push is hard at first, until the muscle gives way, then all Stiles knows is tight heat and pleasure. 

Derek’s head writhes back as Stiles bottoms out, and he gasps for a moment at the sensation of being full; “Move,” he whispers breathlessly and Stiles, thought overwhelmed, complies. He draws back a little, pushes in again, small movements designed to stretch and open.

They stay like that for a while, soft movements together, gentle huffs of air into the night, until Stiles can take it no longer. He shifts a little, lifting Derek so he can push harder, deeper. He’s not kidding himself, he knows Derek is helping hold his weight, because the man is pure muscle and Stiles is trim but he’s not wrestler. He thrusts harder, and harder still, until the air is full of the sounds of sweat slick skin meeting.

Stiles’ orgasm builds from within his core, from the very centre of his being. It begins to curl his toes and hum through his chest. He reashes out and takes Derek’s cock in hand, tugging in rhythm with his thrusts. Derek pant and moans and gasps and Stiles watches as the darkness falls away from Derek, as it unpeels and crawls away, leaving behind just raw pleasure, heaving and pulsating through the man.

As Derek comes, the wolf appears and Stiles feels the faint scratch of claws at his thighs, sees the flash of blue and hears the growl of the wild animal within. Derek’s muscles clamp down around him and Stiles loses himself in the sensation of being surrounded by Derek. His own climax explodes within him—stealing his breath and his senses before he collapses onto Derek below him.

They lay together for a long while, coming down from their highs and stroking oversensitive skin. Stiles’ eyelids droop as Derek presses gentle kisses to his throat and temples.  
“I have to go,” he says.   
“Now?” asks Stiles. He knew this was coming, knew Derek would have to leave.  
“I have a few days,” Derek replies, his voice lighter. “I think it would be good to chase away a few more ghosts before I leave.”  
“I can help,” Stiles smiles, though his eyes are still closed, “I’m good with weird stuff, Have some experience with the supernatural.”

Derek smiles into Stiles’ throat. He isn’t okay, not yet. He’s not even sure he will be. But being with Stiles chases away the black, and maybe he can stick around a bit for Stiles to work his magic.

And he also has a nymph to stop before Stiles gets himself killed.

“I heard that!” Stiles laughs.


End file.
